The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [74]
“By court-martial?”
“Unnecessary – purely administrative relegation to civilian life will save both time and trouble.”
“That can be done?”
“Bithel himself agrees it is the best way.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“I sent for him first thing this morning.”
“How was he feeling?”
“I have no idea. I am not concerned with the state of his health. I simply offered him the alternative of court-martial or acceptance of the appropriate report declaring him unsuitable for retention as an officer. The administrative documents releasing him from the army in the shortest possible period of time are now in motion. He wisely concurred, though not without an extraordinary scene.”
“What sort of scene?”
“Tears poured down his cheeks.”
“He was upset?”
“So it appeared.”
The episode plainly struck Widmerpool as of negative interest. That he should feel no pity for Bithel was reasonable enough, but it was a mark of his absolute lack of interest in human beings, as such, that the several implications of the interview – its sheer physical grotesqueness, for example, in the light of what Bithel must have drunk the night before – had made no impression on him he thought worth repeating. On the other hand, the clean-cut line of action he had taken emphasised his ability in dealing decisively with a problem of the kind Bithel raised by his very existence. Widmerpool’s method was a contrast with that of my former Company Commander, Rowland Gwatkin, earlier confronted with Bithel in another of his unsatisfactory incarnations. When Bithel had drunk too much at the Castlemallock Gas School, Gwatkin had profitlessly put him under close arrest. Then he had omitted to observe the required formalities in relation to army arrest, with the result that the whole procedure collapsed. That, it was true, had not been entirely Gwatkin’s fault; nevertheless, from Gwatkin’s own point of view, the action had totally miscarried. With Widmerpool, on the other hand, there was no melodrama; only effective disposal of the body. The Bithel problem was at an end. If Bithel handicapped the war effort further, that would be in a civilian capacity.
“A pity the Warning went off like that last night,” said Widmerpool, speaking rather savagely. “We could have frog-marched the brute back to his billet. I’ve seen it done with three.”
“Who will command the Laundry?”
“Another officer is already under orders. He will arrive this evening – may even have got here by now. I shall want to see him. There’s a slight flap on, as a matter of fact.”
“What kind?”
“The Mobile Laundry have been ordered to stand in readiness to move at forty-eight hours’ notice. This needs immediate attention with a new officer taking over only to-night. I was expecting the order in a week or two’s time, not quite so soon as it has come. As usual, things will have to be done in a hurry.”
“Bithel was going anyway?”
“Of course – but only to the I.T.C. Now he will leave the army.”
“Is the Div. moving?”
“The Laundry’s orders have nothing to do with this formation, as such. There’s been a call for Mobile Laundries. Between ourselves, I have reason to suppose this one is for the Far East, but naturally the destination is secret – and you are certainly not to mention that I hold that opinion.”
“You’ve known for some time they were going to move?”
“It came through to me when you were on leave.”
“You knew when you transferred Stringham?”
“That was precisely why I posted him to the Laundry.”
“So he’ll go to the Far East?”
“If that’s where the Laundry’s bound.”
This was certainly arbitrary treatment of an old acquaintance.
“Will he want to go?”
“I have no idea.”
Widmerpool looked at me blankly.
“I suppose he could get out of it on grounds of age.”
“Why should he want to get out of it?”
“Well, he doesn’t look as if his health is too good. As you said the other day, he’s put away a good deal of drink in his time.”
“But it was you who suggested shifting him from his job as Mess Waiter,” said Widmerpool, not without impatience. “That’s one of the reasons I acted in the matter.